


Held Accountable

by thesignsofserbia



Series: Held [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Angst, BAMF John, Dark John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I love lestrade so much, It's John's Fault, John is not pleased to see Sherlock, John's Reichenbach Feels, John's payback, M/M, Not A Fix-It, POV John, POV Lestrade, POV Sherlock Holmes, Paternal Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Lestrade, Reunion, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock fucked up, Sherlock gets what he deserves, Sherlock-centric, comforting lestrade, john is a bit of a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 10:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4219134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t know where to go after John turns him away, Baker Street isn’t really an option right now, So he goes to the only other place where he thinks he'll be welcome, a place that has always been a safe haven for him in the past. He just hopes it still is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Held Accountable

 

 

“One more for you,” the nurse pokes her head into John’s office, she looks a little concerned, and it’s nearly 8pm which is well past closing, John’s just sticking around to finish some paperwork…and to avoid going home to his sad, empty little flat.

 

“Tell them to go to A&E if it’s serious or to come back in the morning, we’re closed.” He’s just about finished up and he was going to head off to get something to eat, his stomach’s grumbling like mad.

 

“Uhm, Doctor, he’s really insistent that he has to see you,” Gina pokes her head back in, worrying her lip with her teeth. She’s new and she hasn’t quite settled in yet so John just gives her a patient smile.

 

“Yeah alright then, send him in,” She looks so relieved.

 

“Sure?”

  
  
“I’ll take care of it, you head on home, I’m fine closing up.”

 

_What’s the harm? It won’t take very long._

 

He’s lonely, and _bored_.

 

 

~

 

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

His patient is Sherlock fucking Holmes, who just waltzes back in here larger than bloody life like, ‘oh yeah by the way, I’m _not dead_.’

 

John sees red, and within seconds of his brain actually confirming that it is him, he’s hit the man twice in the face, kneed him in the stomach and has Sherlock backed up against the wall, bodily restraining him.

 

_How dare he?_

 

John has one hand fisted cruelly in Sherlock’s curls and the other around his throat. He can feel each individual ring of cartilage that makes up his trachea and he puts just enough force on Sherlock’s throat so that he _can_ actually breathe, but has to fight to draw every breath. Like John had to fight to get through every day.

 

“One reason,” He snarls, “Give me one reason why not.” It’s a dare, John’s angry enough that he thinks he could kill him. He twists the hand in his hair and is rewarded with a stifled grunt of pain.

 

“I don’t have one,” Sherlock rasps, neglecting to defend himself at all.

 

John tightens his grip, he’s officially already dead. No jury would convict. He’s so blinded with rage, pent up over two years, no outlet for danger, nothing but paperwork and his job as a boring locum doctor.

 

Sherlock maintains eye contact and doesn’t raise a hand to stop him as John slowly cuts off his airway. He forces down his body’s natural panic at the lack of oxygen and tries to resign himself to this, it’s difficult not to fight back.

 

He’s gambling that John won’t kill him. He hurt John, and he knows the other man has to hurt him back and get it out of his system a little if they have any hope of getting past this. Their friendship recovering from this has slim enough odds already.

 

He’s feeling light headed.

 

And if he’s wrong? If John fully intends to kill him? Well so be it, he’d been willing to die for John more than once before. He wonders how long he can refrain from struggling until automatic instincts either render him unconscious or force him to take action.

 

His nose is still bleeding uncontrollably.

 

He’s _almost_ certain that John won’t, but the rage in his friend’s eyes, the firm, steady pressure on his trachea, and the burn in his lungs are the elements that make up the ‘almost’. He tries not to be afraid as he holds John’s gaze, forcing himself to be open and honest.

 

It’s good to see him again, regardless, to touch him, John’s so close he can smell him and it’s like coming home. He might be about to die, but at least this way he can spend the rest of his life with John, which is probably A Bit Not Good.

 

That’s not to say that this whole situation isn’t incredibly disturbing.

 

 _‘I’ll do it,’_ John’s threat is unspoken, they’ve always been good at silent communication, and it’s a small comfort that that hasn’t changed.

 

‘ _I’ll let you_ ,’ Sherlock tries to convey in return.

 

He doesn’t want to die, but he will allow John that, if that’s what he needs.

 

_Oh god, I can’t breathe._

 

Unexpectedly, John releases him and steps back as Sherlock crumples to the floor, hyperventilating and struggling not to pass out. Sherlock, still wheezing, gathers the courage to look up at him and John is looking  at him like he’s dirt under his shoe.

 

“Why did you stop?” he rasps, he’d no excuse for his actions, John could have killed him, he even _wanted_ to, he’d seen it in his eyes, but he didn’t. There was hope.

 

“Get Out.” John spat at him.

 

“John?”

 

“You heard me, get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

 

John doesn’t wait for Sherlock to comply; he yanks him up by his lapels and shoves him out the door.

 

Sherlock is stunned, so he does the only thing he can think of, he goes to wait until John locks up, maybe he’ll have cooled down and they can talk properly.

 

 

~

 

 

John closes up shop and heads for the tube, overwhelmed and angrier than he’s been in years.

 

He’s also absolutely appalled at himself; he nearly just killed a man with his bare hands because he couldn’t control his temper. He hates Sherlock more than he can even say right now, but he’d never really want to _end Sherlock’s life_. He’d never have been able to live with himself if he’d killed Sherlock Holmes, but he’s starting to think the _‘be careful what you wish for’_ lark was onto something, some miracle this had turned out to be.

 

Then he hears it, someone following him. _Fucking bastard._

It’s starting to rain, bloody brilliant.

“John, wait! You have to listen to me.”

 

John is marching away down the street, livid, but he rounds on Sherlock and his familiar voice is low and deadly;

 

“No I don’t. I don’t have to do anything. You have no right to come in and try to dictate my life. So no, I don’t have to listen to you, I’m not interested in anything you have to say to me, I can barely stand to look at you.”

 

John’s eyes were dark and unforgiving as they confront each other on the pavement, this wasn’t how things were supposed to go, none of this was right, John should never look like that. Sherlock’s really worried now; he hadn’t expected John to _stay_ this angry, John isn’t pleased to see him alive at all, not even a little bit.

 

Remorse is eating into his tissues like acid.

 

“What can I do?” he beseeches him, there has to be a way to fix this.

 

John laughs, but it’s dry and humourless, Sherlock winces.

 

“That’s just it Sherlock, I don’t think you can solve this one, not this time. You’ve done enough don’t you think?”

 

Sherlock just stands there open and helpless; he braces himself to be forced to watch as John walks away, right out of his life. But John pauses first and that bone chilling smile contorts soft features.

 

“Have you ever lost someone? Someone who matters?” John is bitter and he asks the question dubiously, indicating that he doesn’t believe that anyone matters to Sherlock. Oh how wrong he is, Sherlock doesn’t know if he can stand to lose John a second time, doesn’t know if he’d survive it. But it’s not his choice to make.

 

“I have, just once.” He responds cautiously.

 

_You, John. I lost you._

 

“Right, that’s good then, maybe you’ll get it,” He braces himself at the malicious intent in John’s voice as he really gets going. John has one motive, and one motive only; to tear Sherlock down, to wound him;

 

“Because that person, the one you loved? They’re dead Sherlock, and they’re not coming back. Their body is rotting in the ground or burnt to dust and they will never form another coherent thought.”

 

John’s _not_ dead, but he’s lost him anyway.

 

That was brutal enough on its own, but John wasn’t finished.

 

“And knowing that they’re gone, that feeling you get when you think about everything you loved and hated about that person, and you know that all of those things no longer exist? That’s what you put me through, every day, that’s been my life for the past two fucking years. ‘Cause it was real for me, you were actually dead. I stopped because I can’t keep hitting you until you experience what it was like to lose you, and trust me I would if I could. I don't want to see you again, so stay away from me. Maybe you should have just stayed dead, saved everyone the trouble.”

 

Sherlock has no words, he doesn’t think he can even move, he wants to reach out for John, he wants to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, he wants to cry. But he’s frozen in place and he stays rooted to the spot as John fades into the distance.

 

_What has he done?_

 

~

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t know where to go after John turns him away, Baker Street isn’t really an option, seeing as he doesn’t have his key and the flat hasn’t been lived in for years, plus he’d risk giving Mrs Hudson a coronary. And he won’t go back to Mycroft, didn’t want to hear his self-satisfied ‘I told you so’.

 

So he goes to the only other place where he thinks he'll be welcome, a place that has always been a safe haven for him in the past. He just hopes it still is.

 

“Am I dead?” Is the first thing Greg Lestrade asks when he opens the door, and he thinks it’s a perfectly understandable leap given that Sherlock Holmes is standing on his doorstep in the pouring rain, , as if he hadn’t been dead for two years. To make matters worse half of his face is drenched in blood like something out of a horror film...or perhaps it was a zombie movie in this case.

 

“Sorry to disappoint you Inspector, but we are both very much alive.” He sounds exhausted.

 

Greg feels like he’s about to faint.

 

“…You’d better come in then.”

 

Sherlock looks up at him in surprise and then he is so tentatively hopeful that Greg’s chest aches despite his anger. He stands aside to let the younger man in, the poor sod’s soaking wet.

 

They settle in the kitchen, Sherlock’s shucked his coat and is wrapped in a towel and holding tissues to his nose, Greg’s on the other side of the bench making tea. He tosses him some ice because Sherlock is developing one hell of a black eye.

 

“So, you’re alive.” Greg prompts.

 

“You don’t seem very resentful about that,” Sherlock comments and Greg wonders what sort of reception he’d been expecting.

 

“Resentful isn’t the word I’d use, no. Bloody furious maybe, certainly confused, but I wouldn’t say I resent you for not being dead.” Greg reasons.

 

“You’re not going to hit me?”

 

“I’d say someone’s already taken care of that for me. Despite the job description, I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I’m not really a violent man. What happened to your face?”

 

“John Watson.”

 

“Ah, well I think you had that one coming mate.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock croaks, his voice is a bit scratchy and he’s not looking at him, he readjusts his scarf in discomfort, rubbing at his neck.

 

“I don’t blame him. Look, what you did was wrong and it damn nearly destroyed him. You need to understand what it was like for him after, you were his only friend. But you were more than that, you made his life interesting, I mean working with you was practically his career; he only worked at the clinic to pay the bills, but the adventures with you? That was everything to him, you were the center of his world, and he had to watch you die, you put him through that,” Greg lowers his voice, “I had to confiscate his gun.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. _He had to take John’s gun_. That part he _hadn’t_ known. And god it hurt. The rest He’d heard over and over, he understood that, he wished they’d all shut up because he couldn’t take much more of it.

 

“You don’t think I know that Lestrade?! I’ve heard all about how devastated he was, and I am painfully aware of how much he detests me, he made that very clear.”

 

_He’d had to take away John’s gun._

 

“And so you should. Damnit Sherlock for once in your life you need to accept responsibility for what you’ve done! You weren’t here so you didn’t have to see the wreckage you left behind! You made this mess, you did a horrible thing, no one’s taking the fall for you this time, and I’m not going to lie, I’m disappointed in you.” Greg’s nearly shouting now, trying to get through to him.

 

Lestrade’s disapproval stung badly, and it annoyed him that the D.I. had that much power over him, his defences bristled.

 

“I am not your son!” Sherlock snaps back at Greg’s lecturing, and _Greg_ is surprised by how much that stings _him_. They stare at each other for a minute until Sherlock looks away.

 

“No, you’re not my son,” Greg looks at him fondly, “But I’d be proud if you were.”

 

Sherlock stills, and turns around to look at Greg in disbelief. _Even after everything…?_

 

“Faking your death was bad Sherlock, really bad. However…you wouldn’t have done it without good reason.”

 

Sherlock seems taken aback by Greg’s clear head and is still reeling from his earlier statement about being proud of him.

 

“You can’t possibly know that for certain.”

 

“Yeah I can, Sherlock I’ve know you for a long time, and hell, you’re definitely no angel, but I don’t believe for a moment that you’re the sort of man who would do a thing like that if there was another option. I trust you.” Greg means every word.

 

“You shouldn’t.” Sherlock mumbles into his lap. Greg shrugs.

 

“Probably not, but I do,” he admits unapologetically, “Look I know you don’t want to hear it but I think that you have to. Because it was awful, John was grieving but the media were still harassing him at every turn, he moved out, and then Mrs H had that bout of pneumonia and she was all on her own because none of us knew…But, what’s done is done and honestly, I’m just glad to have you back. But making him watch? That was just cold.”

 

Sherlock swallows.

 

“Yes I know, but it was unavoidable, I swear. He never would have believed it otherwise,” Sherlock’s eyes flick across his face, needing Greg to believe him. Greg nods and Sherlock relaxes a little.

 

“So, what have you been doing all this time?”

 

He’ll only say that he was dismantling Moriarty’s network, and nothing more. They’ve relocated to the sitting room and Sherlock stares at Lestrade’s badge on the coffee table with gritted teeth, he’s unforthcoming and a muscle twitches in his jaw every time his time away is mentioned. Greg doesn’t want to think about the possible implications that brings, Sherlock’s fixation on his badge, and he doesn’t want to think about any conflict of interest that Sherlock might be protecting him from by not answering. Maybe it’s better he doesn’t know.

 

“Okaaaay, will you tell me about why you had to do it, and how the hell you jumped off a fourth storey rooftop and survived?” Sherlock could at least give him something.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock looks weary, “But it’s a long story, and I’d prefer it wait until morning?”

 

“Yeah, I think I can live with that.”

 

Sherlock contemplates Greg for a while silently as they sip their tea.

 

“It was hard for you as well.”

 

Greg sighs, Sherlock would never know how bad it had gotten for him, and he didn’t need to, personally he doubted that Sherlock would ever be able to forgive himself as it was, there was no need to pile more onto his shoulders. He’d mostly grieved in private, and the focus had been on keeping John afloat, but for Greg it had still been its own particular brand of agony.

 

“Yeah it was actually, nearly lost my job, I was on probation for 6 months. I suspect the only reason they didn’t fire me was Mycroft probably pulled a few strings.”

 

Sherlock nods slowly in acknowledgement, “If it means anything Lestrade, I _am_ sorry. I never intended any of this to happen.”

 

“It does, it means a lot. Actually…” Lestrade rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, “It was crazy, with the arrest and everything, I just- I wanted you to know…that I never doubted you.”

 

Sherlock’s face softens;

 

“I know that,” he says, and it’s like absolution, the guilt over Sherlock death had been following him around for two years, that nagging doubt that maybe Sherlock had thought he’d been duped too, and that it had been a factor leading to the younger man’s suicide.

 

There’s a long pause, it’s getting quite late and Sherlock is slumped in his seat, looking absolutely wrecked, Greg feels bad for him and is just about to suggest they go to sleep when Sherlock pipes up again, voice very small.

 

“I don’t know how to fix this Lestrade,” He admits and he sounds lost, Greg really hopes he’s not going to cry because that would shatter his own composure for sure.

 

“I don’t either, but time will tell. Understand that he has every right to be angry with you and it may take a very long time, but I think he’ll come around.”

 

“He told me I should have just stayed dead,” he says it so quietly that it’s almost inaudible, and Greg doesn’t fault John for being angry or even saying it, things happen in the heat of the moment, but he hates to see Sherlock so distraught. _High functioning sociopath my arse._

 

“You know he doesn’t mean that,” Greg assures him gently.

 

“I’m not so sure of that anymore.”

 

“I have no idea what you’ve been doing this whole time or what you’ve been through and I know you don’t want to tell me. So I’m not going to ask, or try and make you talk about it, but I can see that you’re different and anyone can see that this hasn’t been easy on you either, I mean for god’s sake when did you last eat something? But of course, the guest room’s yours if you want it.”

 

And Sherlock really looks like he needs the rest. He feels privileged that Sherlock thinks to turn to him in a time of great need and vulnerability, and it always strikes him as weird that The World’s Only Consulting Detective of all people is the one person who never fails to bring out the paternal side of him.

 

“Anyway, whatever’s happening between you and John; I don’t want to get involved. But you are always welcome here, that hasn’t changed, and it never will.”

 

Unconditional.

 

Greg gets up and pats the younger man on the shoulder then as he shuffles off to bed, behind him he hears a very quiet;

 

“Thank you.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a bit harsh on John, so it may be a little OOC and I apologise for that, I like to think it was just an overreaction and that they sort things out eventually.


End file.
